Blessings as Impositions
by EnlightenedSkye
Summary: Margaret must reveal a secret that has the potential to change her and Thomas's relationship forever. [Preshow MTB, early to mid 1880s. Mostly canon compliant. Complete]


A/N: I was reading through comments on some of my older stories when I stumbled across a rather enthusiastic review for _One Quiet Moment_. A guest remarked that the number of Brackenreid fics posted here were lacking, and I would have to agree. Whoever you are, I would like to thank you for sowing the seeds for this story.

The problems in Thomas and Margaret's relationship are obvious and relatively few, the lack of communication being the most glaring. To me, it seems that they exist in their own little worlds, home and the constabulary, that rarely meet and therefore drive a rift between them. Sometime, before obligation drove her to seek solace within, I see Margaret as a more free-spirited woman (she's always been a spitfire, and that's never going to change in my eyes). It also seems to me that Thomas has grown hard from years of struggle. Like so many couples, they have grown distant from each other. This is my humble attempt to recapture some of the magic of their early relationship.

Preshow MTB, early to mid 1880s. Unbetaed, complete as published. Recall that my personal headcanons place Margaret eight years older than Thomas. I've read that women often wore corsets during pregnancy, but I never saw her as a slave to fashion. And, yes, you didn't miss your guess; we're expecting John in this story. I'd like to skip forward about ten years in my next story and take a look at how the dynamic has changed once Bobby comes into the picture. Until then, bless you all.

 **Blessings as Impositions**

The first time Margaret awoke with a start, nausea clenching her abdomen, she knew that something was dreadfully wrong.

She was alone in bed when the sickness struck her; Thomas had not yet returned from his labors even though there were tinges of the dawn creeping through the open folds of the drapes. The lantern at the end of the dresser had melted down sometime during the night, leaving her with negligible light with which she could navigate the room. Sure enough, as she threw back the covers and prepared to jump down onto the floor, her feet got tangled in the hem of her nightgown, nearly causing a calamity.

As she staggered to the door, she caught a glimpse of her haggard figure in the mirror. Her skin has assumed a deathly pallor, and she was acutely aware of the fact that her nightcap was soaked with perspiration. With every step, the vice tightened on her stomach. By the time she'd entered the hallway of her tenement building and began to stumble towards the lavatory and the end of the hall, she was struggling to hold back dry heaves.

Margaret tried the knob only to find out that it was locked. From behind the door came a plaintive, "Occupied," followed by what sounded suspiciously like the pages of a newspaper turning. She uttered a rather unladylike curse under her breath, wondering why on God's green earth her neighbors couldn't be _reasonable_ at least part of the time.

"Please, Mr. Keeler," she gasped, clutching at the fabric of her gown. "I'm dreadfully ill."

The wretched man, who was forever smoking cigars in the corridor and carousing at ungodly hours, only clicked his tongue and replied, "My apologies, Mrs. Brackenreid, I arrived first."

The young woman sunk to her knees and hacked several times, distantly thinking that this was not the proper place to lose one's lunch. But to hell with these people, she needed _relief_!

Finally, it came with a wave of shivers, taking all of her strength with it. From the opposite side of the hall, a door opened, and someone stepped onto the floor. For a fleeting moment she believed it might be the salvation in the form of her husband, having finally arrived to salvage her honor from this most mortifying situation. But it was only Mr. Hart, the loathsome drunk, stumbling home after a night wasted in debauchery. To her supreme dismay, he only laughed at her, hiccuped into his palm, and continued on his way.

Margaret groaned and doubled over once more. Now that the gastric distress had passed, her head was swimming. The pain from the headache was steady, thrumming, and distorted her vision so that she saw no other option but to screw her eyes shut and wait for help to arrive.

That was how Thomas found her but an hour later, whimpering and nearly collapsed in her own filth. Her name escaped his lips and he went to rouse her, before settling on gathering his wife in his arms and carrying her, wedding style, across the threshold of their room.

"What's happened to you?" He asked softly, feeling her shift and settle in his arms.

His wife only sighed and buried her face into his neck, where he could feel her hot breath on his collar. "I seem to have taken ill," she answered.

That much was obvious. Laying her down onto their bed and gathering the covers about her, he turned to study the medicine cabinet. After a few moments of studying the labeled vials, not to mention Margaret's prompting, he selected a small bottle of chlorodyne.

He returned to her side to administer the medication, somewhat enjoying the sensation of her hand wrapping around his wrist as she drank her fill. Really, women were no more than infants when they were ailing.

Watching her eyelids flutter and droop with exhaustion, it occurred to Thomas just how tired he was. He'd tried his best to put on a brave face and struggle through two shifts of running the beat at the constabulary, but he had to admit that the Inspector's attempts to condition his newest recruit to the position was taking its toll on him. It was times like these that almost made Thomas wish he was still under the employ of Margaret's father. _Almost_.

Almost reverently, he began unsnapping the closures of his constable's jacket, one by one. A respectable man took pride in his appearance, from the tips of his well-shined shoes to the corners of his mustache. A larger salary allowed for the former Brit to attend to this with a daily shave and a monthly outing to the opera. Thomas liked to think that his little family was beginning to move up in the world. Soon, they might even be able to move out of their tenement and into a nice home on the opposite of town. When he was lucky enough to be assigned to such a desirable beat, he would circulate the blocks slowly, taking in the sights of lush gardens and wrap-around porches. He could see himself and Margaret living in each one he passed. It was a formidable goal, but one that was becoming more attainable with every passing day.

Now undressed to the knickers, he joined his wife in bed, curling around her backside and placing an open palm on her abdomen. For the first time in a matter of months, she protests his amorous intent, sliding away from his reach and reminding him, "I'm to be at work in less than an hour."

"Not with the fever you've come down with, my love," he said firmly, hoping that would be the end of the discussion. It never was with Margaret.

"Mother will be expecting me, and I've worked under worse conditions. You must remember that with her I am not on the best of terms," she countered.

Thomas knew that most of his wife's life had been spent performing hard labor, her attention split between the general story that had been passed down through her mother's side of the family, and her father's well-off plumbing business. He'd worked alongside Mr. Barlow for several years; the old man hadn't wanted such a virile young man working in close quarters with his impressionable daughter, but desired an assistant to cart around supplies from home to home over the course of their day. Soon, the in-laws had warmed up to him, allowing Thomas to court Margaret and eventually marry her. It was honor, they had said, to have such an accomplished war veteran in the family. In addition, because Margaret was the only surviving child of the aging couple, they'd needed an heir to their twin business ventures. Had Thomas made the reasonable choice, they would have been able to live comfortably with minimal effort. But, then again, he wasn't accustomed to taking handouts.

When he'd left the plumbing business, the Barlows had taken it as a personal affront and made it abundantly clear that they were no longer welcome in their home. Both had suffered a wage cut as a result of the falling out. Margaret was now considered lower than the youngest stock boy; as an additional insult, the old man's lawyer had sought out Thomas at the station house and informed him, in front of God and everyone, that he had been removed from any mention in the will of the couple. They'd been forced to start over, all in the name of a fleeting dream Thomas had experienced as a young boy. And although Margaret didn't mention it to his face, he knew that she resented him for it.

In the meantime, Thomas knew that she was right. Their rent for this month was already past due, for he wasn't to receive his first paycheck until the end of the week. Watching her stumble to the armoire and attempt to make do with an ashen complexion and disheveled hair, he vowed, "One day when I am an inspector, you shall never have to work again."

She indulged these words she perceived to be empty, smiling kindly and resuming her morning routine.

-0-

A few months later, Margaret finds that she can no longer ignore the changes that are taking place within her body.

She awakens with nausea almost every night, eventually growing tired of finding the lavatory locked and beginning to sleep with a rusted tin bucket at her bedside. Thomas probably suspected something-he simply _had_ to-but she continued to blame it on whatever vile miasma was spreading through the building on that particular day. Her feet and ankles began to swell, stretching the bindings of her shoes. There's no money for a new pair, so she clandestinely slips them off as soon as she gets to the grocery, ignoring the odd looks she receives from the customers whenever she comes around the counter. The end of the month repeatedly comes and goes without so much of a hint of her anticipated menstrual cycle.

She's sitting atop a stack of cardboard boxes in the storeroom when her mother joins her, arms crossed at her chest and eyebrows raised with discontent. Martha Barlow is a stern woman, without any humor to speak of, and she's always held her daughter to a high standard. It is without a trace of emotion in her voice that she says, "You're pregnant, are you not?"

There's no point in denying it. In matters of home and family, a woman's intuition reigned supreme. "I'll be back to work in a few moments," Margaret promises, all but ignoring her question.

A tense moment of silence passes between the two women. Finally, Martha asserts, "I want you out of my shop. Your employment is terminated."

With some effort, she stands and draws herself up to her full height. "You can't do that, mother. It isn't affecting my duties." And there _it_ is. With the use of that ambiguous pronoun, she's acknowledged this _thing_ growing within her for the first time. Both women shrink away from this declaration, taking a step backwards.

At that moment, the space between them is unbreachable. "You have been entirely careless, Margaret. Do you really think that Yorkshire rat can care for you and that child?" Her tone raises an octave, as if she's daring her daughter to jump into the argument.

She takes a deep, ragged breath in a desperate attempt to quell the rage growing within her. "How _dare_ you say such things about my husband. He is a good man who-"

"He was using you for our family's position. After all of my years of mentorship, how on earth could you be so blind?"

A counterboy passes by the open doorway, clearly seeking the council of the owner. When he sees the two women standing toe to toe under the electric lights of the storeroom, he continues on his way, pretending as if he witnessed nothing. Margaret allows a minute or so to pass, releasing her clenched palms and rubbing them on her apron. "Is that what you really believe? He walked away from father's business because he wanted to make something of himself. Surely _you_ of all people could respect that."

The twitch of an eyelid is the only indication that her barbed words have hit home. Martha, who had grown up in the privileged home of a shopkeeper, had no idea of the struggles they were enduring. She didn't know that her daughter had to shoo away rats from the stoop with a broom, or curl blankets under the door to keep the two of them from freezing for lack of heat, or that mold was growing in from the foundation of the floor and causing a most dreadful cough among the residents of the tenement. She just didn't know, or perhaps she didn't care.

"Goodbye, Margaret," she intoned at last, without a trace of emotion in her voice.

So this was it. Taking a luxurious amount of time, the young woman slipped her shoes back on and secured the closures. Then, not taking her eyes off those of the woman she'd formerly known as mother, she approached the panel in the wall where the safe was kept.

She could have taken more than one hundred dollars. She could have taken it _all_ , but didn't want to stoop to her mother's level of treachery. Inserting the promissory notes into her billfold, Margaret replied, "Farewell, Mrs. Barlow."

-0-

That evening when Thomas returned from the beat, he was surprised to see his wife at home. She greeted him at the door dressed in the thinnest of robes and a dangerous smile. He did not resist her when they made love, nor did he broach the subject as to the cause of her exceedingly good mood.

He slept more soundly than he did in a matter of weeks, for his wife was clinging to him like a dying woman who needed an anecdote that only he possessed. The following morning, he awoke earlier than usual to finish his morning ablutions in the lavatory. When he returned to their flat, he was enchanted by the sight of his wife, nude save for the dressing gown tied loosely around her waist.

As beautiful as the image was, they both needed to prepare for the day ahead. Removing her corset from the drawer, he held it out towards her, boning facing inwards. This was a time honored tradition for most husbands, who would rather assist their wives in dressing than spare the expense of a maid.

"That won't be necessary, Thomas," she said, and that blasted smile was back once again. "I won't be wearing such undergarments for the foreseeable future."

"Whyever not?" He questioned, although he was pretty sure he knew the answer. Bile began to rise in the back of his throat.

She stood slowly, a hand coming to rest on her lower abdomen. "In a number of months, I am to become a mother."

It was as if time had stopped in that instant. Thomas looked as if the breeze could knock him over at any moment. All the color had fled from his face, and it was all he could do to stare at her, agape.

This certainly wasn't the reaction that she had been expecting. It was as if both did not want to shatter the moment before the passing seconds and their inner turmoil required action. Thomas swallowed hard and leaned against the wall, assuming a defensive position with his arms crossed. Meanwhile, every single transgression he'd committed in his short lifetime was running through his head. Could it really be true? He wasn't ready to be a father, let alone have _any_ child look up to him!

Sensing his apprehension, Margaret began to babble excitedly, the words tumbling from her mouth faster with every sentence. It was a foolhardy habit of hers, to let her mind overload her speech, but now she found that she couldn't stop.

"Mother let me go from the store when she caught on to me, but before I left I procured the wages she's withheld from us out of spite," she says, rummaging in the drawer and retrieving a wad of bills. "There's one hundred dollars here, Thomas. That's enough to get us through the next several weeks while we search for a permanent home. I don't think that hateful woman will begrudge me the loss of profits, for she's stolen enough happiness from me."

That last bit comes out dripping with such vitriol that Mr. Brackenreid's stomach preemptively clenches with aversion. He knows where his wife keeps his scotch, just out of arm's reach underneath the trundle bed, and he suspects he will soon need to partake in it. And that was another thing-how could he hope to be a reliable resource for his family, if he was constantly tempted by the vice of drink?

He accepts the money, and studies it as if he's some immigrant that has never before laid eyes on currency. It's a small fortune for the couple, however illegally obtained it might be. It's stashed in the pocket of his uniform as he moves to the window and throws up the sash. As he passes her, Margaret leans into an anticipated embrace and winds up with her arms wrapped around herself. She can feel the tears stinging the skin at the corners of her eyes. Clandestinely, she wipes them away and studies her husband as his back is turned to her. He takes a deep breath of the smoggy morning air before confessing, "Margaret, I'm not sure my term of employment will continue with the constabulary."

It's an egregious falsehood, one that he cannot easily explain away with a simple disagreement with his fellow constables. Even though he knows this to be foolish, a part of him wonders if he can reverse time by ignoring the events of the past few months. He wasn't sure that their relationship could survive this most recent development unchanged.

"But the Inspector seemed so impressed with you," she amends quietly. "Even if he was not, it is essential to maintain a bit of faith. I would have thought you would have been excited to hear that-"

The constable turns toward her suddenly, and when Margaret takes notice of the emotion in his face, she finally understands.

To her knowledge, her husband has wept but once since they were married, present circumstances notwithstanding. She'd come home after a particularly pleasant evening at the shop, singing and humming a ditty to herself, only to find Thomas on the fire escape outside their window. He was still dressed in the worn uniform of the associates at her father's plumbing company, clutching a letter and wearing an expression she only knew him to have affected when discussing his time in Afghanistan. Dreadful news had reached him with the evening mail delivery; his beloved and only sister, Elizabeth, had perished in childbirth.

She'd taken him to church to commiserate under the watchful eye of the pastor she'd attended services under since childhood, and when scripture failed to relieve the emotional burden, they'd both found solace at the bottom of a whiskey bottle. The following morning, both had roused and attended to their duties, and that had been that on discussion of the matter.

That day had been one of the defining factors in Margaret's eventual decision to swear off the indulgence of alcohol. She never wanted to awake with such a pounding headache and prescient knowledge of the things she had endured the previous night without much closure to speak of. The last thing she wanted was for Thomas to descend into the same stupor of unknowing, the failure to come to terms with even life's most continual struggles. He thought too much and emoted too little; she was continually trapped in a loop between propriety and ambition. She knew that lack of understanding between them would be the bane and ruin of their relationship no matter what she did. But that didn't mean it had to happen now.

"Too much longer without a child and you would have seen me a barren old maid," she's the first to break the silence, stepping into his line of vision. To her satisfaction, he smirks at that, her jest bringing light to his otherwise dour expression. "You needn't worry for my health, Thomas. I've seen and survived worse."

"I'm not worried about that," he confesses, "but rather, my ability to protect and provide the best for you."

Margaret knew she had to tread softly. It was only on the oft occasion that her husband would open up emotionally, and she didn't want to spoil the moment. She made an effort to close the gap between them, assuring, "Oh, Thomas, you could never disappoint me."

He cups her cheek in his much larger hand and kisses her softly, without a hint of the tension building within. When they separate, he has to acknowledge that there is still plenty to worry about. But now, bringing his forehead to touch that of his wife, he says, "My dear, I hope you are right."

 **The End**


End file.
